New Artist's Statement

What I make is outsider art, I make it for love alone no longer considering the confines of the art market, not that I ever really did consider that aspect. It seems to me to be contrary to art itself to try to fit within the confines of what has come before it. Art history is not altered by conscious effort on the part of the artist, the universe herself gives birth to new forms through artists who live for her love only. Perhaps the work is just common gray stones in the waning tide and requires a heart in love to find the one among the millions with the vein of pearl?

Art is the painfully shy girl in the high school cafeteria with food tray in hand and no one saved her a seat at the table and so in humiliation she scuttles off to the back of the room to eat alone, hoping no one will notice and hoping someone will notice.

 It also occurs to me that we are all outsiders and we are all artists the moment we realize that the inside isn’t real and there is nothing but the outside. “We cannot express the light in nature because we have not the sun. We can only express the light we have in ourselves.” (Arthur Dove)

My art is nothing other than a quiet voice and that voice is not on the wall. On the wall hangs an invitation to listen to your story. Like the steamy windows of a closed cafe, chairs stacked on the tables, the ghost of conversations still lingering in the shadows that you view from the outside. Eventually your realize that those soft voices are yours, that you carefully stacked the chairs and turned out the lights but you just forgot everything, the moment you stepped through the door.

I have no formula or preconceived ideas about what art should or shouldn’t be but instead I begin with the intimidation and a dare from the blank white surface sitting on my easel. It demands that I give form to the feeling which moves through me. It demands that I let go of the illusion that I am the artist and so I become the conduit believing that my intention to manifest beauty and meaning is enough and sure enough I create a disaster. But somehow the mess I made begins to show me what it is trying to become and I gently follow. I believe my work is built on a series of mistakes, the wrong color, the running of paint down the surface, the rag mark where I wiped it away and my philosophy is that there are no mistakes in the universe, only mistakes in judgment.